


Rosetta

by revenant_oozi



Category: Avengers (Comic), Marvel (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Language Barrier, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-15
Updated: 2012-05-15
Packaged: 2017-11-05 10:11:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/405267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/revenant_oozi/pseuds/revenant_oozi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky remembers all the languages he speaks; except English.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rosetta

He's getting used to it, the constant game of charades they find themselves playing everyday.

James' mouth would try to form the words, forehead creased in frustration as his hands fluttered around, before he'd finally give up and spit out the syllables in the only ways he can now.

On the upside, Clint now understands the words 'coffee' and 'fuck' in five different languages.

He'd started organizing the day into sections and categories, for Clint's sake, at least letting him have a context to try and understand what he was trying to get across. Anything crude and serious was Portuguese, humor he used Spanish, when he wanted to look smart, Japanese. James didn't use German much.

Russian had the been the easiest. Clint would attest it to both Natasha and even Bobbi being in his life, and honestly the few pieces of the language he understood weren't all that useful. Still, it seemed to ease James' frustrations when he at least tried to make sense of it. Clint would catch a word he thought he knew, roll it around over his tongue for a moment before his eyes lit up in comprehension, or shake his head in defeat and keep quiet. The sinking look of hope in James' eyes in those moments were enough to make his chest hurt.

The worst was everyone else. They could all grasp more than he could, even Janet could get through a stable conversation with the French Bucky understood but didn't necessarily speak. Neither wanted a translator when they were alone, that would be admitting defeat. That would be Clint admitting he'd given up on the man struggling to keep some semblance of a relationship that had been socially awkward to begin with.

Clint's hearing has been damaged for years now, but James' low inflection still registers with more clarity than most things. Anyone with a certain voice pitch was nearly impossible to hear at all anymore besides what sounded like a distant garbage disposal full of cats. If he couldn't understand the words coming out of his mouth, Clint could at least _hear_ them, and that in itself was calming in a way he didn't know he needed.

There are good days, when James is content to go about the hours with only a single word here or there, exchanges of soft looks and rough hands tune out any need for speaking or expression. And even if quiet was never something Clint was good at, those days are so much better, so much easier to get through with just the minimal conversations.

But there are just as many, if not more bad days, when James finally cracks under the uselessness of his own capabilities, hurling whatever is closest to him against the wall and grinding out frustrated obscenities, always using the rougher languages. Those seem second nature, and it's worrying. The last breakdown hadn't been about anything substantial - they rarely had to be - and Clint thinks James was trying to ask a question, the only words pulled from the grumbled Russian sentence being _scissors_ and _batteries_.

James looks ready to pull his own seams, organic hand fisted shakily in his hair, while the other slams against the counter. There may be a dent in the wood surface under the pressure of those metal digits, but James just stays quiet. For what it's worth, the quiet but heavy breath of _'Fotze'_ is understood without hesitation.

Clint doesn't try to play the circles game with him today, it wasn't important, whatever he said, and it would happen again. For now he can wrap sturdy arms around a heaving chest and twitchy biceps, pull James' back against his chest, and wait.

Nothing ever happens, but it passes the time until James can work up enough effort to try again, until his slows voice steadies enough that Clint can use what little attention span he has to process each syllable, hoping maybe one out of ten will be familiar enough to get the message across. That he'll stop having to cling with empty hopes on the fact that the only word James can say without an accent is Clint's own name.

James can't, and will probably never say what he wants to, words Clint can understand. "But it's okay," Clint reminds him softly, pressing a kiss behind his ear, "I can't hear 'em anyway."


End file.
